He hunted frantically for a razor amongst his things. Must get rid of the beard. She didn’t like beards. He’d hastily crammed a selection of necessities into a bag when the telegram from the princess had reached him at his digs in Paris. Could one cross the Atlantic in three shirts? If things went his way, he could always restock in New York. The old girl had thoughtfully sent word that she’d wired a large sum of money to an account in his name at the Fifth Avenue Bank so he would at least be able to cover emergencies. But how the hell had the old girl known he was in Paris? Had she been tracking him about Europe for the last year? He’d hardly known where he was himself most of the time. And how could she have been aware of the dubious state of his bank balance? None of her business and he resented the interference. All the same … and despising himself for sentimentality … he’d kept the telegram. It was in the breast pocket of his jacket.
Only a Russian would pay no heed to the conventions of telegraphic communication. No short phrases here and hardly even a stop. It ran on like a conversation. A one-sided conversation. It had been two years since he’d exchanged a word with the princess and here she was ordering him to drop his wandering life and get himself to Cherbourg to board a liner with one day’s notice. He wasn’t offended – he was amazed and delighted to obey.
With funds running low, he’d only been able to afford a second-class cabin so there might be difficulties. But his cabin was spacious, the fittings elegantly French, and he had a porthole. And at least the clientèle in second seemed to be of a good sort and rather his style. The chap in the cabin next to him … quiet, hooded eyes, military bearing, had impressed him with his undemanding overtures. He’d be glad to meet him for a lunchtime drink in the bar later. Calm his nerves and pass the time agreeably until they picked up passengers at Southampton.
Bacchus watched as the passengers came aboard at Southampton, spotting her willowy frame moving lithely up the gangplank. Both targets safely aboard. So far, so good. He stayed at the rail, lazily watching the comings and goings in the port, and sighed with relief and anticipation when the liner finally upped anchor and began to ease its way out into the Solent, setting its bow to the westering sun. He’d managed to get off a last report for Sandilands, ship to shore, and he could come off watch.
They were in his pocket now. Both of them.
His new friend had confided over a gin or two, after some pretty skilful probing on his part, that he was contemplating reviving an old friendship and was planning a romantic dawn encounter with a young lady in first class. It hadn’t been difficult to get him talking. Men always confided more than was wise to a congenial fellow passenger. Particularly men head over ears in love. Bacchus had offered a sympathetic smile, worldly advice and encouragement.
A considerable man. Bacchus liked him. They’d agreed to have dinner together tonight. Poor bloke, though. Had he any idea what a hell-cat … Bacchus caught himself. If any man was equal to the task of handling the appalling young woman, this was surely the one. He wondered briefly what the attraction was for him. Apart, of course, from the stunning good looks, and the fortune tucked away in an American bank. Bacchus allowed himself a moment’s speculation and decided he wasn’t, himself, man enough to take her on even with such tempting assets. But he could sense a depth of common sense and a firmness of purpose under this man’s charming exterior. He probably had no illusions. And Bacchus had established that, as well as being used to command, the fellow was highly intelligent, fit and active, free of all ties of family and career and spoke several European languages.
Far too good for her.
Bacchus resolved to chuck the girl overboard and recruit the fellow.
At least that’s how he’d tell it for Wentworth … just for the pleasure of seeing her shocked reaction. Bacchus was disconcerted to find that it was the face of the constable his imagination had conjured up for the rehearsal of his tale. He shrugged. If she was still haunting the Yard when he returned, that is. But he wouldn’t get involved with this pair of firecrackers unless something quite untoward happened. Sandilands hadn’t needed to remind him – no feelings! He’d made his plans.
Bacchus was still lounging at the rail outside his cabin, toying with the idea of a sherry before dinner, when she arrived. He checked his watch. On the move already? She ought to be just getting round to unpacking and having a shower. He noted that she was still wearing the blue linen dress she’d had on when she came aboard. No hat, no gloves, no bag, sandals on her feet. Hardly decent, really. She’d left her stateroom in a hurry and came, not striding with confidence for once, but walking tentatively, looking about her like a wild creature. He realized she was checking the numbers on the cabin doors. Her eyes were wide with … could that be fear? Nervousness, at least. Bacchus thought he’d have been looking at her a long time before the word assassin came to mind. Nevertheless, his professional eyes skimmed her slender figure, seeing no evidence of a hidden gun or knife to precipitate his instant intervention. Better stay on watch, though. A killer out on business, as a last gesture, checked his weapon, the hand going towards the pocket or holster a dead giveaway. The very best, and Bacchus counted himself among these, knew they didn’t need to. Her hands performed no such manoeuvre – they were twisting together in anxiety.